


The Moonlight Reveals what We are in the Dark

by TheWyldeWynd



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blame the Drugs, Bliss (Far Cry), Dancing, F/M, Feels, Fluff, John Seed has Issues, Light Angst, Mild Language, Mild UST, Non-Consensual Drug Use, The Deputy is High and Atypically Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22723015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWyldeWynd/pseuds/TheWyldeWynd
Summary: The moon is bright when he finallyseesher - lost in a moment of peace and joy amidst a world of bloodshed and ugliness.And he's never seen anything so beautiful.
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Female Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Comments: 16
Kudos: 68





	The Moonlight Reveals what We are in the Dark

As he glances across the dimly lit field before him, John can’t shake the constantly growing sense that – before the next twenty-four hours are up – he’s either going to be shaking Faith senseless in a helpless fury or (much less appealing) be making her a nice thank-you/apology meal. Or possibly _both_ in rapid succession, because…

He allows himself the indulgence of a low sigh, still eyeing the scene before him as he waves his accompanying followers into action – the small horde of Faithful dutifully fanning out to start the collection process.

And, for perhaps the first time _ever_ , said collection is going _peacefully_. The Sinners are allowing themselves to be pulled from the field and led back to the awaiting vehicles with only minor, gentle protests – if they protest _at all_ , which… well… most of them just don’t seem aware enough of reality to actually _do_.

Everything _appears_ to be going well.

And John doesn’t trust it in the slightest.

Because… well… because of the _source_ of the Sinners’ tranquility.

Faith’s newest strain of Bliss.

He hadn’t paid much mind when she’d sent the latest shipment his way – their newest sister was always testing and trying and tweaking recipes, and more often than not John found himself serving as the beta-tester for her experiments (by default, really; Jacob had little patience for such things and blatantly refused to indulge Faith when the established strain of Bliss served his purposes well enough).

Said tests tended to follow the same script: receive the new strain, test the new strain, deal with the disastrous side-effects of the new strain, return to the old strain and treat Faith to pointed looks and comments at all subsequent meetings until the _next_ new strain arrived. He’d done it with the new strain of Bliss that caused people to develop overwhelming synesthesia. He’d done it with the strain that put people into comas that – to date – no one had woken from. He’d done it with the nightmarish strain that had caused people to fly into murderous rages while laughing – hysterically and _ceaselessly_. He’d done it with the strain that they _did not speak of_ , the one that had made all exposed highly… amorous.

And so on.

And so, quite understandably, he’d been openly skeptical and derisive upon receiving Faith’s newest project. After all, it wasn’t as though anything _useful_ would come of the stuff. Voice above, Joseph _barely_ even corrected John and Jacob when they needled Faith for her failed experiments these days, and what little correction he did give was _clearly_ done out of principle rather than because he disagreed with what they said – _that_ was how poor Faith’s experimental track record was.

Simply put, it had been universally _obvious_ from the start – the new Bliss _would not work_.

And yet…

Granted, they could just be in the calm before everyone started projectile vomiting their own organs out, or developed an insatiable hunger for human flesh, or some such madness… but… well, for the time being things certainly _seemed_ to be working as intended.

And so, once he determines that the effects are – Voice be praised – still working in their favor several minutes later (not quite a half hour since the burgeoning battlefield was first pacified), John makes his own way out into the field.

It’s… different.

To say the least.

He’s grown used to seeing the effects of the Bliss (the _actual_ Bliss, the stuff that actually _works_ ); the way it tranquilizes, the way those under its sway slow and calm, taken to a point of almost waking sleep (if not waking death). There’s a peace to them, certainly, but it’s… off. Quietly, subtly, intrinsically _wrong_ in a way that’s nearly impossible to define. And it’s necessary, certainly; and Joseph says it’s a gift, so it _must_ be; but John… has never really liked it. Has never liked the eerie, unnatural tranquility that swallows all who the Bliss touches. He doesn’t like it in the slightest… but he _has_ grown used to it.

But this…

“And just what,” he’d asked his _darling sister_ when the shipment arrived, voice thick with scorn, “is _this_ one meant to do?” And then he’d smiled, sharp as knives and trusting his tone to carry that across the airwaves, and indulged himself. “Lead people to bash their skulls in? Eat their own tongues? Or perhaps simply drive them screaming mad with paranoia?”

It had been spiteful and it had been petty, but – for once – it… hadn’t seemed to _touch_ Faith, who had just sounded happy and expectant and _satisfied_. “It’s peace… and joy…” and she’d giggled in that way she did, girlishly and bell-like in a way that never fails to make him roll his eyes. “And just a _touch_ of moonlight.”

Moonlight.

That had been her answer.

She’s sent him _moonlight._

For _fuck’s **sake**_.

John had walked away from that conversation with a sharp pain behind his eyes and a _deep_ thirst that he’d had no qualms about satisfying; because _honestly_ , what in the _hell_ did that even _mean_?

Except…

John takes a deep, steadying breath as he moves through the field – dutifully ignoring the dull shadow of an oncoming headache as he surveys the area.

Except _damned_ if it doesn’t look like Faith might have been _right_.

Because several minutes ago John would _never_ be able to conjure an image to depicting “peace, joy, and moonlight” but now he’s starting to think he doesn’t _have_ to.

Everywhere he looks John can see Sinners smiling, see Sinners laughing, and see Sinners _not_ lashing out in hate and violence at the hands that seek to deliver them to salvation.

It’s…

There’s really no need for him to be there – no resistance ( _Ha ha_ ) or complications as his disciples gently gather the smilingly compliant Sinners. And yet John finds himself wandering the field, watching the bizarrely joyous harvest as the twilight sky gives way to a moon bright night.

He watches a young woman – her face and arms knotted with ugly, twisting scars – sitting crossed legged beside a forgotten rifle (its surface littered with tally marks), babbling childishly to two spots of empty air as her scarred hands dance in an invisible game of jacks, playing and giggling and then sighing explosively in youthful exasperation when a Faithful gently takes an arm to lead her away.

He watches another woman – older, if not by much – smile warmly as she braids the hair of a Faithful (the one, borderline soothing, complication thus far – his own people at Ground Zero have proved just as susceptible to the new strain as the Sinners), the large man sitting on a stump and drawing patterns in the dirt with his feet as he chatters about events that must have occurred _decades_ ago.

He watches a man laying in the grass, reaching upwards, face intent for stretches of deep concentration before breaking out into broad grins, hands working and working before dropping to exchange one invisible tool for another.

John wanders the field, watching the moments of joy and peace that are drawn from within follower and foe alike (often so small, so simple, and somehow startlingly beautiful in that).

He wanders, sometimes pausing to watch and wonder about the scenes before him.

Here a woman blushes and shuffles like a nervous teenager, occasionally ducking her head coyly or turning to peck her lips against an invisible cheek. There someone is caterwauling – their voice tunelessly belting out the lyrics to some overly processed pop song with far more enthusiasm than skill. On an overturned crate a woman sits, posture perfect, with a tiny smile as she knits and knits and knits, while nearby a man hums to himself while kneading dough across thin air.

He wanders the field, seeing little joys (a man, barely more than a boy, shouting advice as he catches and chases and tosses an invisible ball) and great ones (an old man with skin lined and burnt to leather by years of sun and weather, face split in two with a smile as he weeps and sobs through his wedding vows). He sees moments of contented isolation (someone sitting under the shadow of a tree, fingers dancing over the strings of an absent guitar) and moments of _connection_ (a man grinning and laughing as he shifts from side to side, cheering encouragements as he pushes two sets of swings). He sees moments of stillness and moments of activity and _so many_ moments of fishing and –

Sometimes he sees people and he wonders how deep the peace and the joy and the moonlight go – a woman sitting, arms rocking the air cradled within, soft snatches of some gentle song barely making it out past her sobs.

He doesn’t linger by these people.

And it’s all… so strange. So unlike anything he’d ever expected to see. So…

So very…

John makes his way through the field, passing a man who keeps shushing the long-suffering Faithful trying to pry him away from his phantom book, and something catches his ear. He drifts towards the sound, head tilting a little as he regards the Faithful who’s kneeling in the grass, the man crooning too low to fully hear as he pets at something below him, John’s brows knitting together a little in confusion as he steps closer to –

He hears the man’s words.

Goes still.

Then walks forward, unsheathes the knife Jacob had long ago given him, and draws it across the man’s throat. And then he stands there, watching until the blood’s finished pouring from the opened throat of the _thing_ beneath him. Then, and only then, does he return to his journey.

But not before he stops to order a number of his coherent Faithful to start _judging_ those whose inner joys are being revealed.

Things aren’t the same after that.

It shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, it’s not like he’s never encountered such things before. He _knows_ about such things, about such _people_. And he’s not so _Prideful_ as to believe that no such creatures would dare seek to invade Eden. But somewhere in the last few minutes he’d be drawn in, and he’d…

He’d…

He’d _wanted_ this moment to be… good.

Pure.

Beautiful.

He’d wanted just one moment of innocence and _real_ joy, amidst the flood of Sin drowning the whole damn world.

But…

But it’s a lie.

The ugly moment, as much as he _hates_ it (on every _possible_ level), has been like the flicking of a light switch, the truth illuminated and undeniable before him.

Everywhere he turns, every soul he casts his eyes upon, is shadowed now. Where he’d seen little joys minutes earlier he now sees _Sins_ – sees _Sloth_ and _Pride_ , _Lust_ and _Greed_ and _Gluttony_ teeming throughout the field around him.

It’s almost a relief, really…

And it’s _that_ thought occupying his mind (a rush of razor sharp vindication and childish _disappointment_ with reality) when he stumbles, his feet catching on something hidden in the grass that sends him halfway down to the ground.

Profanity hissing out between clenched teeth, John wheels his head around, his frustration peaking into a snarl as his eyes land on the heavy pair of worn-in hiking boots lying – empty and abandoned – in the tall grass. One (now dirty and somewhat scuffed) hand lashes out, grabbing at the laces as he glances up, a contentious rush of emotion flooding him when he confirms that no one’s close enough to have seen his fall (relief, because a Herald of the Father can’t _afford_ to appear foolish before the Faithful; aggravated embarrassment, because he let himself get so caught up in his own mind that he failed to pay attention to what he was doing and wandered so far away from his followers – Jacob would throw a _fit_ if he knew, and Joseph would be _disappointed_ ). Head shaking, hands and one knee smarting, John pulls himself up, still hissing and snarling and clutching the abandoned boots as he starts rising to his feet, brushing off the grass and dirt that had _better_ be easily laundered from his pants as –

A flash of brilliant, fiery red flares at the edge of his vision.

Heart stopping and blood running cold, John freezes.

A second ticks by, then two, and when – by the third – nothing tries to _murder_ him… John takes a deep breath, steels himself, and looks towards the flash.

And there, not a stone’s throw away from him, stands _The Deputy_.

And there’s John Seed – far beyond the reach of his well-armed followers and only wielding a pair of shoes and a knife that is _highly_ unlikely to be of _any_ use to him against this particular adversary.

_Voice fucking **damn it** , Faith; if I die here I’m going to figure out a way to **haunt** you._

Except…

A moment ticks by.

Then two.

By the third John manages to take another deep breath (which does very little to combat the sour burn in his throat or the frantic pounding in his chest, honestly) and _looks_ at his family’s greatest enemy… who for _once_ doesn’t appear to be living up to her reputation as the human embodiment of _Wrath_.

She’s just… standing there – head tilted down slightly and to one side, arms loose at her sides, motionless but for the steady rise and fall of her breathing.

Something creeping around the edges of his mind, John keeps staring, the bright light of the moon and the receding panic feeding him more information, his eyes rapidly scanning his nemesis (from her fire-vibrant hair to her freckled to her scarred arms and down to her bare feet) for some –

_Wait, what?_

John blinks. Stares. Blinks again as he focuses on the fact of the Deputy not wearing shoes, and then blinks a _third_ time when it hits him that of _course_ the Deputy’s not wearing shoes… because _he’s **holding**_ her shoes.

And that bewildering development is still cycling around his mind when _another_ thought catches up – that he can see the bulk of her arms because she’s _also_ not wearing her usual hooded jacket, or any of the like styled forms of outerwear she seems so fond of. And, sure enough, a quick glance reveals a heap of fabric on the ground between them (not too far away from where the shoes had been) that he’d wager had recently gone over the Deputy’s nearly threadbare t-shirt.

And it’s all so bizarre – so _specific_ in its oddity – that all John can do for several moments is stand there and _stare_.

And then, in a flash, the stunned stupor falls away and John finds himself metaphorically _slapped_ with the glaringly obvious.

The Deputy hadn’t come to check on the abruptly halted battle, or to investigate the new strain of Bliss, or steal her Sinner compatriots away from the salvation of Eden’s Gate. Hell, she hadn’t even come to murder _him_ , shocking as that might be. And she certainly hadn’t come late to the party and then abruptly decided to perform a very tame strip-tease for no apparent reason.

No.

No, she’d been there from the battle’s start.

She’d been _exposed_ to the new strain of Bliss.

What… a fortuitous turn of events.

And one that, John’s reasonably certain, he could not _possibly_ be more infuriated by if he tried.

Already there’s a sharp pain where his jaw is involuntarily clenching, a red mist drifting before his eyes as he stares at their greatest and most elusive (to say nothing of _destructive_ ) enemy. _Wrath_ , The Harbinger, the ‘Angel of Death’ ( _Oh. **Please**._), the hate filled and spiteful and _rude_ natural disaster in human form, the violent wretch and vile temptress who’s caused such trouble and _refused_ to yield to their mercy, _his_ mercy, the sin and blood drenched _child_ who’s studiously evaded all his attempts to bring her to salvation and _repentance_ … is just standing there. Calm. _Peaceful_. _Not_ burning the world down or _destroying his things_ like the vanguard of Armageddon that she is.

All thanks to the newest – _functional_ – strain of the Bliss… and _not_ because of anything that _John_ himself did.

Which means…

Which means that Faith is going to be _**insufferable**_.

John can’t stop the low growl that forces its way out between clenched teeth, and his free hand ( _Why in the **hell** am I still holding the Deputy’s **shoes** , anyway?_) is coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose, because why _yes_ – the burgeoning headache from earlier _has_ returned and is already promising to tear its way through his skull.

Breathing deeply and trying to _will_ the pain away, he starts to turn, suddenly _needing_ to flag down a Faithful or several to come collect the Deputy because he does not need to _deal_ with all this right now, and he _absolutely_ does _not_ need or want to know what acts of depravity or violence bring joy to Deputy _Robin **Baird**_ ( _Some people should **not** be allowed to name children, honestly_). Knowing her it’s probably murdering the Faithful, or murdering John himself and his _family_ , or fornicating with her repulsive degenerate friends and fellow Sinners besides the murdered bodies of him and his family and their followers, bathing in blood and burning the world to ash and –

And that’s when the Deputy moves.

The movement stops him short, muscles and blood freezing instinctively (just as he stomach twists to knots and his heart leaps into his chest) so as to not draw the attention of the nearby predator.

And then the panic fades, just as abruptly, bleeding into a touch of embarrassment because all she’s done is _look up_ – not even at him – and it certainly doesn’t _seem_ like she’s noticed his presence; probably hasn’t noticed _anything_ of the real world, if the white haze of Bliss over her eyes is as intense as he thinks, so –

She moves again – one arm sweeping softly outward to hang in a weightless arc from her side, and even as she does so the opposite foot lifts off the ground, the bare, delicately pointed foot kicking up behind her for a moment, then gracefully extending outward, gliding through the air to land feather-soft on the ground. And then, a heartbeat after she hangs there, arm outstretched and whole body resting effortlessly on the ball of one foot, she moves again – the other arm arcing out this time, it’s twin swinging pendulum-like to curl downwards in front of her body, and in the same motion her other foot moves, kicking back as the first did, only to flit back before it can touch the ground, toes arcing toward her shin for a breath before stretching forward again, held gracefully aloft before easing to the ground, her body following until her weight’s shifted to the ball of this foot, freeing the other to lift and repeat the journey, her arms likewise trading places, again and again and –

John watches as she moves, the bewilderingly familiar steps repeating until she’s performed them seven times, only for her raised leg to suddenly kick out in a wide arc on the eighth – both arms curling in front of her before lifting up and outward, her body following the upraised leg and turning once, twice, before her foot returns to join the other on the ground. But only for a moment. Then she’s moving again, her feet flitting together in a back-and-forth trade off, one foot chasing the other – one moment her weight resting on the ball of one foot, then on the pointed toes of the other – as she begins to turn in a circle, her arms lifting and falling in graceful arcs as she moves and –

And he knows, knows what she’s doing, what he’s seeing, he’s seen it before, he just can’t _understand_ –

Until she completes her circle, the circuit ending where she’d begun it, her feet coming together for a split second before one moves forward, her weight going fully onto it and –

She _lifts_ – her whole body rising in a motion as effortless as breathing, planted leg straightening as she rises all the way up on the ball of her foot, arms lifting, one extending towards the moon above while the other hovers to echo the line of the horizon, and her other leg kicks back, lifts up, curls behind her arched back and uplifted head to mirror the arm reaching for the heavens in a _spectacular_ Attitude derriere that steals the breath from his lungs.

And then John _understands_ , but that understanding doesn’t mean a _damn_ thing as he finds himself caught, _entranced_ by the Deputy as she turns and spins and _dances_ beneath the moon.

It’s…

He watches her, practically hearing the music she’s dancing to – notes springing from the tips of her toes and soaring into the air with each step of a Saute de basque.

He watches her, the light of the moon reflected within her skin and catching in the flickering embers of her hair as she turns pirouettes beneath its gaze.

He watches her, heat blooming in his chest and his skin as she flies through an arabesque, landing like a living ray of moonlight and sweeping into a deep Penché, then rising smoothly into a delicate Écarté devant before wheeling away in another series of pirouettes.

He watches her, and he _sees_.

He sees the fire and the passion and the dedication, sees the hours, days, months, _years_ of hard work, sweat and blood and agony, that’ve gone into the dance before him. For the most part the routine is simple – deceptively so; and the relative simplicity does nothing but showcase the young woman’s _mastery_ of her art. It isn’t perfect… but John… John Seed who was once John _Duncan_ , a giant in Society and a Patron of the Arts (John Duncan who’s life had been a seething maelstrom of _ugliness_ , who had just wanted to see _beauty_ ), John who has seen renowned artists dance on the best stages in the world, seen the greatest dancers of his time perform before adoring supplicants in palaces and temples of Art… he can’t look away from the woman before him. Can’t do anything but watch her – too thin, dirty and scarred, dressed in ill-fitting jeans and a tattered shirt and her hair messily escaping its practical braid – as she dances, her bare feet flying across the uneven Montana ground, and each move she makes takes his breath away all over again.

It’s…

He watches her dance, effortless and adept and not quite technically perfect because there’s too much _life_ – each new step or turn or leap, each lift of the arm or tilt of the head fueled by the _joy_ pouring from the young woman’s heart, unabashed and unrestrained, not a performance but an _expression_ , and even in his rapture something _burns_ inside him, a flare of agony as he watches and _knows_ how the worlds of Society and Art are as superficial as they are fickle, and he knows that no amount of talent or dedication or _passion_ would ever lead the masters of those twin dissemblers to overlook a body that’s “not suited” for the art and give her the stage she deserves.

He watches her – a ballet virtuoso with a body too tall and curves too generous to ever be deemed acceptable – and he wonders if she’d tried, tried and been _rejected_ for not fitting their antiquated standards; or if she’d ever even _had_ that moment of false hope, if she’d _known_ as she watched herself grow taller and more curved, the height and the figure of a model or an actress or and goddess but _not_ a _ballerina_ , dreams stolen day by day and inch by inch until –

He watches, heart soaring and mind stuttering and breath catching as she throws herself into the air, the Grand jeté blending seamlessly into an Effacé that lifts her face to the sky, the moon a spotlight and he _sees_ her face _fully_ for the first time and –

She’s _smiling_.

And suddenly he can’t even think anymore.

All he can do is watch.

Entranced.

Because it’s…

It’s…

_She’s_ …

_**Beautiful.** _

And in that moment the world falls away until there’s nothing left but the two of them – the dancer and her captive audience.

She dances and he watches and for a brief moment in time everything is… _beautiful_.

And then, too soon (far, _far_ too soon), it’s over – the dancer’s movements slowing and settling quietly until, with otherworldly grace, she sinks to the ground in a deep curtsy as the song reaches its end.

A breath catches in John’s throat – gasps out wet and shuddering between the part of his quivering lips, and it’s only then that he feels the burn of tears on his face.

Another gasp escapes him, skin shuddering from a sudden sweeping chill that wars against the fire in his skin and blood, and John reflexively squeezes his eyes tight, breath heaving and hands shaking as he strives to master himself and, moments later, he breathes deep and forces his eyes back open.

And another pair of eyes – brilliant, impossible green veiled with white fog – meet his gaze.

He’s standing barely an arm’s length away, unsure of when he moved or why he didn’t notice… and he can’t bring himself to care. Can’t do anything but stare down into the eyes of the beautiful young woman before him, still looking up from her curtsy, and…

“Brava.”

The word – a breath let slip from his pounding heart – curls through the air between them, followed by a moment of still silence.

And then he breathes again – another trembling gasp as his hands (trembling themselves) rise of their own accord, the young woman’s head tilting ever so slightly as she watches him, his hands coming together in soft, shaking applause, John beyond caring about the tears that track down his face as he shakes. “ _Brava_.”

And then his applause trails off – though his tears and his trembling don’t – and her head tilts further as she stares upwards and –

She smiles.

And for a second time the world falls away.

He extends his hand, chest tight, and when her hand (rough and calloused and battered) drifts out to take it he nearly _sobs_ , returning her smile helplessly as he pulls to help her stand and –

She _soars_ upwards – rising in one fluid motion, her free hand coming up to rest on his shoulder as she rests weightlessly on the ball of one foot, the other kicked delicately out behind as she holds herself up the scant inch or two needed to meet his eyes exactly, little puffs of breath brushing over his lips and –

And…

John’s never in his life wanted to kiss someone so desperately.

He –

He shifts his hand, fingers curling lightly over the back of hers, and his other lifts to gently curl around her waist, the dreamlike smile on her face suddenly brightening as he does so, going a touch lopsided in a way that makes his heart skip and his own smile grow to match.

And then they’re moving.

He pulls her close and she lets him – her body (capable of such violence and destruction) going soft and yielding as she follows his lead, surrendering to his guidance (in a dance, just a dance, but for the first time he sees the _possibility_ for more and _hopes_ ).

They move, sway, cradled in each other’s arms, and when her head comes to rest against his shoulder it pulls at something inside him (nestled next to the rawness of his heart) – and then there’s a tune drifting from his lips, familiar as an old friend and suddenly full of new depth of meaning, for all that he can’t push through the weight of the moment to make the words form.

The Deputy… Baird… _Robin_. Robin doesn’t seem to mind the absence of words. She just sighs, a little shiver running through her, and when she presses herself deeper into his arms he can feel her smile against his neck.

And so he holds her even closer – pulls her towards the hopeful drum of his heart and dares to press his lips against her hair – and continues to sing without words.

And, together, they dance beneath the moon.

**Author's Note:**

> _Can I write Far Cry 5 Dep/Seed fluff that doesn't involve the Bliss and altered mental states? Apparently not! :D_
> 
> _Ok, seriously though, this is complete self-indulgence... but it's complete self-indulgence with some meat on its bones and a deeper purpose, as well as something that I've wanted to write for a while now. Largely this is me exploring two apparently minor but actually very influential head-cannons I've got - the first being John's genuine love of art and beauty, and the second being Robin's background in/love of ballet. Neither of these things have been relevant enough that I've felt able to go into them in previous works, but (as mentioned) they're factors that have always been really important for me while writing these two, so I wanted to give a little focus to them. Hopefully y'all find it interesting and enjoyable. ^-^_   
>  _(Also, y'know... its just kind of fun to write John being low-key Hannibal Lector and Robin being all soft and snuggly while under the effect of drugs. And then imagining the ultimate fall-out when she eventually comes **down** from that high in the company of a Suddenly Attached Seed-boy...)_   
>  _(Also also, it occurred part way through writing this that it's sort of a John-version of "Lay Me at the Bottom of the River." Which then made things **very** interesting to me as I started comparing the differences in behavior between the two Seeds.)_
> 
> _Welp, hope y'all enjoyed this, and I'll see you next time! ^x^/ <3 _
> 
> Robin's solo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iyw2jn2lPUE  
> John and Robin's slow dance: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B3BKZiQnISs


End file.
